


a sacrifice (not mine) to make

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU where Martin stops the apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Inhuman Bodily Fluids, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Temporary Muteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24866845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Martin leaves the cottage so that Jon can read one of the statements sent by Basira from the Magnus Institute, but he makes sure to stay close, just in case.He quickly finds out it was a good thing he did so.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 19
Kudos: 415





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on and inspired by [Lizzie's](https://twitter.com/FuffleLiz) incredible comic, which can be found [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/FuffleLiz/status/1274245314719805440?s=19) and [on Tumblr](https://fufflybunny.tumblr.com/post/621427354930200576/), so go read it everyone!!!
> 
> And thank you to [Crunchywrites](https://twitter.com/crunchywrites) and Malthy for beta'ing my fic, you guys are the best <3

Martin started sprinting as soon as he saw the green and grey clouds swirling overhead, the shadow of great glowing eyes peeking from behind the storm; as his feet hit the ground there was an overwhelming feeling of _wrongness_ washing over him, like the phantom but very real sensation one gets when they know someone’s _watching_.

When he left Jon to the statements, he knew that staying close to the cottage was a good idea. He’d never liked the statements in the first place, and although he understood that Jon physically needed them nowadays, there was just something about that box that rubbed him in all the wrong ways, something that somehow made it weigh more in his arms.

And so, when he left Jon to it, he made sure not to stray too far, and to keep alert.

And right at this very moment he’s so goddamn glad he did so.

When Martin throws open the door to the cottage he clearly hears Jon’s booming voice, sees his shaking limbs, feels the compel in every word he utters, hands gripping the papers with the statement so tightly they’re almost completely crumpled in his clenched fingers. He vaguely hears the words in the chant that Jon’s fervorously reciting, and in a fraction of a second he understands their meaning, knows what’s happening with a dread that makes his body lock up in the spot.

“ _No!_ ” He screams, the sound of his own voice snapping him out of his frozen shock, and he propels himself forward in three quick strides, a hand clasping firmly over Jon’s mouth as the other pulls the statement out of Jon’s grip. Jon jumps, and although at first he offers little to no resistance to the assault and allows himself to be pulled back and gagged, Martin soon feels a sharp inhale followed by the feeling of Jon’s lips moving almost mechanically from behind Martin’s palm, the mumbled words muffled but still there. “Stop it!” Martin pleads, wrapping his free arm around Jon and covering his nose and chin in a desperate attempt to stop the words from flowing forth, sure somehow that they still hold power even if no one can hear them, and Jon chokes, struggles and squirms in Martin’s grip.

Martin’s heart hammers painfully in his chest as he presses his face against the back of Jon’s head, feeling the pressure of the Beholder’s powers weighing over them like a physical thing. Jon struggles to free himself of Martin’s chokehold with jerky and twitchy movements that Martin reckons are not all voluntary, almost as if Jon’s struggling against it just as much as Martin is, and Martin _refuses_ to let up. Jon might not be fully human anymore, but he’s still a slight man, much smaller and weaker than Martin himself, and the adrenaline rushing through his veins allows him to overpower whatever’s compelling Jon to _resist_.

Martin brings them both down to the floor, straddles Jon as he presses his body over him to keep him in place, to have him still. “Snap out of it, Jon!” He begs, desperate, lips trembling and throat tight. He finally opens his eyes and looks at Jon’s face, gasping in fear as he sees his glowing, glossed over eyes, at the physical manifestation of the Beholding covering his skin, surrounding his aura. And yet he regains his composure in a second, tightening his firm grip, whole body shaking with not just the effort but also the dawning realization of the horror that Jon’s become while he was _gone_ , when he wasn’t here with him by his side, and it _hurts_. “You’ve got to _stop!_ Because if you don’t-”

He stops, chokes. His whole body becomes cold as Jon redoubles his attempts to escape, as his eyes glow brighter with a fury that _isn’t Jon’s_ , as the pressure builds and builds in the room until Martin can barely breathe, the storm outside raging and shaking the windows almost as if the Beholder is trying to get in, almost as if it’s sending a message, a warning, _a threat._

And as the tears finally roll down Martin’s face, his trembling arms tighten around Jon, and he squeezes his eyes shut to hide from the horrors surrounding them in the place that’s supposed to be their haven, focusing only on Jon, Jon, _Jon_ , warm and real and _right there,_ he might’ve not been here before but he’s here now _and he’s not letting go_.

A thought occurs to him, of what might happen if Jon doesn’t stop struggling, if he’s unable to bring himself to keep the words from flowing out of him; something tells him that The Beholding can most likely puppeteer Jon for longer than Martin could physically hold him down, and as he looks outside, at the sky that seems ready to collapse onto itself, a cold dread mixed with nausea pools in his stomach as he realizes the only thing that will stop The Beholding from _using_ Jon to finish what he’s started.

“I-if you don’t, I might have to,” he gasps, feeling his own tears choking him, “t-to _kill_ you, and I...!” Martin clenches his jaw, bears his teeth, sobs desperately. “ _Please,_ Jon, _please_ don’t make me do this!”

Martin cries and cries, focusing on not loosening his hold, so it barely registers in his mind when Jon reaches up, fingers touching the back of Martin’s hand in a weak supplication, but when he feels a trickle of _something_ from behind his fingers, running down his knuckles, he lifts and turns his head to look at Jon’s face. He thought it was blood, at first, warm and sticky on his skin, but the thick fluid is pitch black like tar, and Jon’s eyes, despite still looking very much green and very much _wrong_ , are now half-closed, dim, his pupils almost visible behind the fog.

“Jon?” He asks, and the trickle becomes a constant stream as Jon stops struggling and finally goes slack under Martin’s body, the black ooze covering Martin’s fingers and dripping down to the floor as Jon’s eyes water with fresh tears. “Jon!” He calls out again but Jon’s eyes are already closed, his hand falling limp on the floor. Martin pulls back and sits up, and Jon’s upper body slumps to the floor without Martin holding him up. The black liquid quickly pools under Jon’s face, trickling down from his nostrils and mouth, and a cold dread runs through Martin’s body.

Jon had recently told him, during a night in when they were being a bit more honest to themselves than usual, that he was physically unable to stop reading statements, even if people interrupted him, even if unspeakable things were happening around him. He felt weirdly entranced by the words once he began reading them, completely enraptured in the stories behind them almost as if he was _there,_ participating in the very moment being narrated, and no matter how painful or grotesque or disturbing the scenes were in his mind’s eye he just couldn’t bring himself to _stop_ , not even to pause and recollect himself. It was unnerving, and yet he was _bound_ to them, like a prisoner of his own mind. A servant of the Beholding, through and through. And it scared him like nothing else ever did; he _hated_ it, hated all of it. The Beholder, for taking his humanity. The avatars, for bringing so much suffering onto the world. Himself, for being a part of it, helpless to it all, unable to do a damn thing. For being so much like them.

And now Martin’s managed, somehow, to break that thread, to interrupt the flow of words from that wretched statement that promised to bring bad, _bad_ things onto the world, despite Jon trying to resist him all the way through. As he stares down at the puddle of black ooze on the floor, at Jon’s soft but still pained expression in his sleep, he wonders if this is a direct result of forcefully stopping whatever it is that compels Jon to read the statements, but his thoughts don’t go much further than that as he notices that _Jon isn’t_ _breathing._

“Oh no...” Martin whispers, cold dread running through his limbs, numbing his whole body. “Oh fuck, oh no, _Jon!_ ” He scoops Jon’s body off the floor, brings him to his lap and lifts his head off the floor, his tears now back at full force after having momentarily receded from the earlier shock. “No, no, no, no no... _Please!_ No, _please_ , _fuck!_ ” Martin cradles Jon’s face, gently, trying not to think too much about the black ichor that stains his face, or the tears gathered on his lashes, under his lids.

Martin’s own tears fall in thick droplets over Jon’s cheek, and he shudders as a sob wracks through his body.

“No, _please_...” he whispers, voice cracking, and he pulls Jon even closer, gathers him in his arms, rests his cheek against his forehead, terrified of how _cold_ it feels. “ _Fuck,_ Jon, I-I didn’t mean it, I’m _so_ sorry, _shit...!_ ”

And, suddenly, Jon’s body tenses and he _gasps_ , like a drowning man coming up for air.

“Jon!” Martin exclaims, pulling away as Jon bends down and coughs and coughs _and coughs_ , choking in the black tar, his whole body shuddering with the effort to expel whatever it is that’s blocking his lungs and airways. “Oh my god, _holy shit_ , Jon, I really t-thought you were done for,” he says, laughing awkwardly as he holds Jon through his coughing fit, hugging him close once hacking turns to heavy, unsteady, raspy breathing. “P-please don’t make me do that again, because I d-don’t know if I could’ve... if I could’ve _killed_ you, even if... even if it was to stop the world from ending.”

He pulls away to look at Jon then, eyes wide and pleading, and Jon looks back, first in terrified shock, then in dawning horror as realization washes over him.

“Jon?” Martin asks, gentle, as Jon lifts his hand and touches his shaky fingers to his lips, and Martin watches, helpless, as Jon bends his head down, hides his mouth and lips behind his ooze-stained hand, and closes his eyes tightly as fresh tears roll down his face.

When the first loud whimper falls from Jon’s lips, high pitched and terrifyingly pitiful, Martin flinches as if he’s been slapped. He’s _never_ seen Jon break down like this, and it feels like a punch to the gut, his heart breaking into a million tiny pieces.

“J-Jon, it’s okay, I _promise_ ,” he murmurs, but he’s unable to hold back his own tears, incapable of hiding the tremors in his voice. “I’m here, Jon, I’m _here_ ,” he whispers over and over, pulling Jon into a full-body embrace, and Jon instantly gives in, hiding his face over Martin’s shoulder, free hand wrapping around his neck. His body shudders and trembles with wracking sobs, and if Martin thought hearing Jon’s compelled chanting before was awful, this, to him, is even moreso.

He buries his nose in Jon’s hair and looks to the side, at the open window, the wind billowing the curtains. The sky is blue once more, and the grey clouds have all but dissipated completely.

And both him and Jon are, despite it all, still here. _Alive_.

\---

When Jon stops crying, Martin carries him, bridal-style, to their bedroom. He takes the hand towel from the bathroom, dampens it, and uses it to rub the black, ink-like fluid from Jon’s cheek and hands. By the time he’s done Jon's long fast asleep, eyes closed tightly, hand curled over the pillow; it doesn’t look like a peaceful rest, but it’s rest all the same, so Martin takes care not to accidentally wake him. He throws the towel into a random corner in the room and crawls onto the bed, pulling the covers over them both, wrapping his arms around Jon in an overprotective embrace. Jon doesn’t even stir, and Martin passes out as soon as he settles down with his forehead touching Jon’s cold and damp nape.

Martin wakes up at the break of dawn, with the warm orange sunlight beaming over his eyes, feeling a deep exhaustion that seeps into his bones and wracks him at his core. He gets up and off the bed, careful not to wake Jon, then closes the curtains to allow him to sleep in for a while longer. When he steps into the living room he pauses, looking down at the crumbled papers spread over the floor, the dried black stain on the wooden planks.

He doesn’t want to, not really, but he reads Jonah’s statement anyway, sitting on a rickety old chair in the back garden. Once he’s done he takes Jon’s lighter out of his pocket and burns it, watching with morbid satisfaction as the fire easily consumes the paper in a matter of seconds, as the wind takes the blackened ashes and the still glowing embers up and away from their tiny backyard. Hopes, deep down, that Jonah’s watching as well. He hopes that it _hurts_.

“You keep underestimating me, _Elias_ ,” he sneers, then walks back into the cottage, not looking back.

He’s just finished cleaning the black ooze off the floor when Jon wakes up, walking a bit unsteadily into the living room. Martin smiles and greets him when he sees him, throwing the cloth onto the water bucket, but Jon stays silent, turning away from Martin to sit at the kitchen table.

Martin understands and doesn’t press Jon. He keeps to asking simple yes or no questions, tries not to make too much small talk that would require Jon to participate in, and he cooks while Jon sits at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the box of statements in the living room. Martin promises he’ll look through them later so that he can veto any other statements in there, make sure Jonah hasn’t snuck anything else anywhere else, and Jon just stares blankly at the box, eyes tired, shoulders drooped.

Martin frowns, but knows that he can’t and won’t force Jon to be alright after what he went through, no matter how worried he is. What Jon needs is time, and care, and some sense of normalcy, and those are all things Martin can offer.

The next day, Jon still is silent, much like the day before.

Martin talks enough for the two of them. Jon is, at least, up and about, unlike the previous day; he offers to help with supper, goes out with Martin for a quick walk in the sun, smiles when Martin points at a grazing cow that comes close to the fencing that encircles the surrounding farm area. Martin feels a bit of that worry untangle inside his chest; he squeezes Jon’s hand in his, kisses the top of his head, wraps around his body in the evening when they retire for bed.

The next day Martin reads through a few statements to confirm they’re safe, and when he hands them over to Jon he simply nods before sitting down on the couch to read... in complete silence.

Martin's never seen him not pull out a tape recorder to read a statement, and it bothers him profoundly. The worry returns in full force, blooming in his chest like an overgrown weed that takes over a rosebush and suffocates it.

After a whole week of this odd silent treatment, during an awkward lunch where the only sound in the cottage is the clinking of their cutlery against the china, Martin stops and looks at Jon pleadingly.

"Have I done something wrong?" He asks, mortified of how his voice breaks and wavers, how his lower lip trembles pathetically, but Jon widens his eyes, shakes his head, getting up and walking the three steps towards Martin. He kneels on the floor next to his chair and places a gentle hand over his thigh, and Martin feels the telltale of tears prickling the corners of his eyes, but he sniffs, gulps, rubs his face. Gathers himself. "I'm _so_ sorry, Jon, I... can you ever forgive me?" For saying he'd kill him? For later confessing that he'd let the world burn before he could ever harm Jon? For _abandoning_ him when Jon most needed him to be there by his side? All of these are left unsaid, but Martin knows Jon hears all of it all the same. He knows that Jon Knows.

Jon shakes his head _no_ frantically, places both hands on Martin's forearms, looks up at him with such a pleading expression it pains Martin deeply, like a fresh wound being scraped raw. Jon opens his mouth, closes it, clenches his jaw as he bends his head down. Martin slides off his chair to join Jon on the kitchen floor, cupping his face in his hands.

"Jon... is this... are you afraid to use your voice again, after...?" he asks in a low and gentle voice, almost as if he’s speaking to a frightened animal that he doesn’t want to spook, hesitant to name whatever it was that happened just the previous week. Jon nods, shaking, and Martin, feeling overwhelmed, holds Jon close against his chest. "You're not... you're _safe_ , Jon. We both are. It's _over_ now, it's..."

But Martin falters. He can’t finish this thought because he can’t be sure that it's _true_ , and something in Martin wonders if Jon’s hesitation is something that Jon simply fears will happen or if it’s something he Knows for sure.

He almost doesn’t want to ask, too scared of the answer.

“C-can you check, Jon? _See_ what might happen if you try to talk?”

Jon shakes his head again, burrowing closer against Martin. He doesn’t have to say anything for Martin to know that using his inhuman powers is also something he’s frightened of doing. Martin‘s heart aches.

“Okay, it’s okay Jon, I’m here, I’m with you... I’m right here. We’ll get through this.”


	2. Chapter 2

Martin buys Jon a notebook.

Jon stays at the cottage the next time they need groceries, and when Martin walks past the small stationary shop in the village he immediately backtracks and goes in. He picks out a beautiful hardcover Moleskine, the kind with thick paper and a matte black cover, as well as a myriad of pens that feel nice to write with; expensive ones that glide with ease across the pages.

When he presents them to Jon he looks shocked, looking up at Martin with a questioning expression. Martin shrugs.

“I know we have pens and pads and post-its and whatnot,” he says, “but I wanted you to have something nicer.”

Jon looks down, runs his hand over the simple black cover, then flicks it open, thumbing a corner of the paper to feel the texture against his skin. He presses his lips into a thin line, then uncaps the pens one by one, testing them on the back page, and once he goes through them all he finally takes the black one with a thin tip and writes, in a swirly cursive,

_Thank you, Martin. That is very sweet of you._

Martin beams, and they lean in for a kiss at the same time, and it’s not perfect, maybe it never will be, but it’s just close enough.

Something else Martin does to manage their situation and fill in the silence is he reads out loud to Jon.

Normally, after dinner, the two of them would cuddle on the sofa, each with their own book and a cup of tea, basking in the warmth of the fireplace. They maintain this routine for a few days, but when the silence starts to crawl uncomfortably over Martin’s skin he makes a decision. He closes his own book with a loud snap and plucks Jon’s out of his slack hands, which gets him an undignified huff.

“Now, where did you stop?” Martin asks, settling down next to Jon, and although he gets a heated glare Martin counters it with a raised brow until Jon relents, sighing and pointing to a paragraph on the right page. “Right.” Martin nods, clears his throat, and begins reading, Jon settling down with his eyes closed and his head resting over Martin’s shoulder.

That quickly becomes a routine, and Martin quite enjoys sharing the stories with Jon, discussing his thoughts when they’re retreating to bed, even if Jon can’t add much to the conversation. Martin’s good at filling the silence, always has been, so he doesn’t mind because he knows Jon is listening.

Jon becomes more comfortable with his new normal as the days go by, the Moleskine always within arm’s reach, and Martin gets used to monologuing, constantly at the ready with a new book for their evening reading hour as soon as they’re done with yet another one. Jon joins Martin for their next grocery trip, but more than once Jon opens his mouth to say something before catching himself and closing his mouth with an audible clack, eyes wide with horror. Martin’s always quick to soothe him, assure him he’s fine, he’s there, they’re okay.

The silence is disconcerting at times, but nothing too awful. Martin makes sure to always be just a room away from Jon so the silence doesn’t hit his anxiety too hard, and he carefully crafts and molds most of the things he says into questions that are easy to answer through simple gestures, so that he’s not just monologuing and Jon can somehow participate in the conversations he’s trying so hard to maintain. Martin has a bit of BSL knowledge, so he buys Jon a book with some of the most essential words and teaches him the little he knows. Jon is a quick learner, soaking it all up like a sponge, and even if at first he often gives up halfway through a sentence, reaching for his Moleskin instead, once he’s comfortable making the various shapes with his hands he tries more often than not to use BSL instead of writing. The Moleskine ends up becoming a sketchbook, and it fills Martin with pride and joy to see Jon using it to doodle at the dinner table while Martin cooks.

And it’s during a slow breakfast, with rays of sunshine bathing their tiny kitchen with a warm glow, that Martin looks up, smiles at Jon with soft fondness, thinking about how lucky they are to be here, not just safe but _together_ , and Jon, after a brief moment of hesitation, puts down his cutlery, lifts his hands, and signs _I love you_.

Martin’s breath catches in his throat, tight with emotion. They haven’t said those three words to each other since _the incident_ , and although Martin constantly reminds Jon of how much he loves him, now and forever, Jon could never say it back other than in small ways, like kisses and smiles and gentle touches—which are just as good in many ways, but Martin would be lying if he said he didn’t miss just outright hearing it. But now Jon’s finally said it back, with actual words, and Martin feels tears welling up as he chuckles, overwhelmed with joy, and Jon leans in to dry his eyes and kiss him.

Which is why the next time Martin’s in the village he’s in a good mood, and consequently decides to make a stop at a charity shop to buy some cute dishes, maybe a trinket or two to put up over the fireplace. It’s there where he spots an old poetry book, thick and well-loved, and Martin is drawn to it like a moth to flame.

They’re sitting on the couch like usual after dinner, and Jon lifts a brow when Martin shows him the poetry book instead of the romance story they’ve been reading the last few days.

"I know you're not the biggest fan of poetry, but... can I read it to you?" He asks, shyly, and Jon nods with a smile, cuddling up next to Martin.

Martin rests his head atop Jon’s and flips to the first page, excited about diving into this beautiful old book, but when he glances at the first few words of the very first poem he feels his body go cold, his eyes fog up.

He should’ve known. _At least it’s not a Leitner_ , he thinks bitterly.

Jon notices how he tenses up, and he looks up, seemingly worried. Martin wonders if he would’ve said something, if only he could.

He starts reading anyway.

_I wandered lonely as a cloud_

_That floats on high o’er vales and hills,_

_When all at once I saw a crowd,_

_A host, of golden daffodils;_

_Beside the lake, beneath the trees,_

_Fluttering and dancing in the breeze._

He exhales shakily, staring at the words, unable to not see the parallel between them and the reality of his very-recent life.

He carries on still, ignoring how his voice trembles.

_Continuous as the stars that shine_

_And twinkle on the milky way,_

_They stretched in never-ending line_

_Along the margin of a bay:_

_Ten thousand saw I at a glance,_

_Tossing their heads in sprightly dance._

Jon shifts, cuddles ever closer to Martin, most definitely feeling his discomfort. His eyes are now glued to the pages, his lips pressed together.

Martin wonders what’s on his mind. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could know, like Jon sometimes Knows him, and then hates himself for even thinking that.

He takes a deep breath and continues reading.

_The waves beside them danced; but they_

_Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:_

_A poet could not but be gay,_

_In such a jocund company:_

_I gazed – and gazed – but little thought_

_What wealth the show to me had brought:_

Martin pauses for a second, feeling overwhelmed and also silly about it, because it’s _just a poem_ , but it’s also a poem about feeling lonely and finding solace and joy in the dancing daffodils despite the overwhelming feeling of solitude, and it all just reminds him too much of Peter, of his time as his assistant, of the brief bittersweet moments of respite whenever he saw Jon, spoke to him and got to hear his voice. The sunshine that struggled to get through the fog that permeated his life.

Jon shifts by his side again, and when Martin glances down, to his shock and surprise, he’s croaking out a few shy noises, his throat struggling to form the sounds. Martin widens his eyes and is about to say something when Jon begins reciting the very last verse of the poem.

_For oft, when on my couch I lie_

_In vacant or in pensive mood,_

_They flash upon that inward eye_

_Which is the bliss of solitude;_

_And then my heart with pleasure fills,_

_And dances with the daffodils._

Jon looks up at Martin, his eyes wide and face pale with fear, but there’s a small grin to his agape mouth, like he can’t believe what he’s just done. Martin stutters, his chest almost painful with so many emotions, and Jon laughs in disbelief.

“This was... one of my favorites. Back in school,” he says in lieu of an explanation, and Martin laughs, setting the book aside and pulling Jon in for a hug, which he reciprocates immediately. They’re both sobbing on each other’s shoulders, shaking, Jon’s fist balled up on the back of Martin’s jumper. “I love you so much, Martin,” he croaks out, voice still rough with disuse. “Thank you for, for all of this, and I-I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Martin says, laughing again. When he pulls back and wipes his eyes and cheeks on the sleeve of his jumper, Jon leans up for a kiss, which Martin reciprocates right away.

And for the very first time, in this tiny little cottage in the middle of nowhere, Scotland, Martin feels like this could be not just a safe haven, but _home_. Just as long as they have each other, and take care of one another.

Just as long as the daffodils keep dancing to the breeze.


End file.
